


He Followed Me Home

by redux (sian22)



Category: American (US) Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Bernerdoodles, Boston Red Sox, Building trust, F/M, Fenway Park, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Fun, Happy Ending, Interrupted Sex, SO MUCH FLUFF, Secret Relationship, a tiny bit of angst, adorable new pup, dodger pining, new puppy parenting, papparazi, rescue dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 14:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12509188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian22/pseuds/redux
Summary: The whole world gets involved when you and your new boyfriend, Chris Evans, adopt a new friend for Dodger but then can’t settle on a name.   It's tricky, keeping a hush-hush relationship secret when the guy you fall for is the 'most objectified' man in the world, but Chris is playing for keeps, determined to let love grow out of the public glare.  That is until he slips up, with hilarious consequences.





	1. Surprise, March 2018

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheyCallMeBecca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheyCallMeBecca/gifts).



> Ok..so in a rash moment of weakness I bet @theycallmebecca that my beloved Cleveland Indians could best her Boston Red Sox in the latest series. Whoever won got a drabble. It was close and an awesome game but unfortunately a loss for Cleveland. So here is her choice: Chris and Reader adopt a puppy and have to decide on its name: from the Patriots. Bosox or Disney. Aannd because I can never write short it’s more of a fic. Enjoy!

 

“He followed me home…”

As defenses for impromptu madness go, it’s a little bit predictable.   You’re standing, sheepish and flustered, with an armload of wriggling, wagging tricolor fluff while your boyfriend Chris leans against the front hall closet door.  

His arms are folded across his chest.  His deep ocean eyes are bleary and amused at once.  It is technically  _his_  Laurel Canyon home, although your socks and books and curling iron moved in two months ago.  Long enough to feel a bit like they belong, but not long enough to be certain if you’ve erred.  

“Oh really.”  There's a deep Boston twang as one skeptical eyebrow raises.  

It was just the first thing that popped into your head.  Chris pauses to take in the mammoth paws, the blunt short snout and drawls, “So SuperPuppy jogs a cool tens k’s?”    

“Maybe,” you squeak.  It’s not easy to shuffle one’s feet while juggling a possible hot potato in canine form.  

Chris laughs and shakes his head, as much at the sound as the ridiculousness of it all.  On the scale of crazy spur-of-the-moment things you’ve done this falls somewhere between late night skinny dipping in his mother’s pool (scary but fun) and filling La Jolla High’s atrium with foam (fun until you all were caught).  

You sincerely hope this is closer to the first.  

“Y/N, you are so full of shit.”    

Behind you the door is still ajar—open to the bright spring day that lies lazily golden and blue under California sun.   It’s ten o’clock and only seventy degrees.  Dry with just enough heat to remind you summer will be soon, just enough breeze to lift the sweet scent of  Sierra  _Salvia_  blooming beside the walk.

Perfect weather for a mid-morning jog  (or a mid-morning nap if one is desperately jet-lagged, two days after crossing eight time zones from damp and windy London).    

Chris yawns and rubs at his eyes.   His hair is mussed; his t-shirt’s askew and you can tell from the creases on his cheek that he’s been crashed on the man-eating white leather couch.  Probably with Dodger on his chest.  While you’ve been out burning off the prickling excitement of reunion after two weeks apart, the pair of them, inseparable since the moment Chris walked through the door, have been busy catching zzz’s.  

You smile wanly at the dark smudges under those dark and ridiculously heavy lashes.  

He so needs it.  The press for  _Red Sea Diving_  has been  _brutal_ tacked onto Avengers  _4_.

“Dodger missed you while you were away,” you offer by way of explanation.  

This is true, but not perhaps entirely the point.   The pair of you  _had_  talked about the problem just the night before.  How Dodger pined terribly for Chris while he was in South Africa.  How you two had whispered the word ‘airport’ but still Dodger had gone crazy when he saw the latest suitcase coming out.  That it might be a good idea to get him another friend; a constant pal when he has to shuttle between L.A. and Massachusetts; crashing for months at time with Chris’s sister’s kids.  

At least the heavens had aligned for the latest trip.  You’d dog sat and watched the house, spoiled him with lots of love, but still Dodger moped, ignored his  favorite ratty blanket and had to be coaxed to eat.   Change was hard for animals.  

But still, this follow through might be just a  _teensy_  bit premature.    

Chris frowns, puzzled and tapping his fingers on his leg.  How do you explain?  You’d finished breakfast, thought it a good idea to give the two best buds some space to chill and took yourself off for a longer run.   Turned right instead of left along Mulholland and wound up outside Ace of Hearts with its ‘Dog of the day” sign plastered on the window.   So cute, and so in need.  

You’d given in, asked to see their featured rescue and wound up outside puppy’s cage, getting a hopeful shy wag and your fingers licked through the metal bars.

How could you resist?  Puppy looked small and alone and so very sweet.

Isn’t this supposed to be one of the things Chris loves about you?? That you are ridiculously spontaneous while he struggles not to overthink every little thing?

“I didn’t plan it,” you admit.  “It just kind of happened.”   Chris’s eyebrows rise even higher.  

“Y/N.”

You lick your lips nervously and try again.   “I…” you start but don’t get a chance to explain because fifteen pounds of black and white and brown fluffball wriggles harder in your arms. You’re standing in runners and shades, long brown hair pulled up under a sweaty baseball cap.   At your feet are two shopping bags from Village Pet and in the waistband of your jogging shorts are the rumpled adoption papers

Dodger, that pure soul of joyousness, is not helping things. He’s excitedly jumping up on his hind legs, pawing and yipping, trying to get closer to the pup.   The little guy whimpers mournfully.   You put your knee to block Dodger's enthusiasm,  lift your shoulders, struggling to hold the puppy a little higher, crooning softly to reassure.  The smells and sounds  _are_  new.  There’s a strange dog who is trying to say hi and a big, broad, bearded man who is leaning over to inspect him.  

It’s overwhelming and a bit startling to go straight from a 2x4 metal cage to an open expanse of cool and white.    

And Dodger’s idea of friendly can sometimes be a little much  

“Come on pal, leave off.”   Chris grabs at the red collar in tawny fur, pulls the mutt back, clamps his knees around the whining, overly enthusiastic host.  The ghost of a beginning grin on his handsome face fades quickly to a frown of concern.  

Puppy is still scared.  He’s shivering silently in fear, trying to hide himself underneath your chin.  

You can almost hear Chris Evan’s enormous heart melting on the spot.    

“Hey, it’s ok… don’t be afraid,” he says, softly, hunching his huge shoulders down to make himself a little less imposing.  “Don’t mind this big, crazy lug.”   A free hand that knows something about anxiety reaches out to stroke the black wavy fur, caressing it slowly, in time to slow easy breaths, resting gently against the little warm body until the shivers ease.  

Chris, thrilled at his feat, smiles wide and looks up underneath your brim.    “Boy or girl?”  

“Boy.  He’s a Bernerdoodle…” you say as if this explains everything.  

“A what?” Chris is chuckling, quieter than usual so as not to startle the poof of dark wavy fur.    He snickers,  softly imitating Ned Flanders nasal accent perfectly.    " _Homer, I can see your doodle…"_     

“Chris!”   You roll your eyes elaborately, thinking not for the first time that omg this man is such a  _kid_. Yes doodle is slang for penis.  It is also a recognized crossbreed.  

You shake your head and very very carefully shove him with your hip.   “Shuddup.  A Bernerdoodle is a Bernese Mountain Dog and Poodle cross.  You shouldn’t tease the little guy.  He’s had a really rocky start.  Was just busted out of a puppy mill.  He’s the last of his litter. No one wanted him because his markings weren’t symmetrical.

They aren’t.  Puppy has two white paws, one fore, one aft; a white blaze on his chest and a white stripe down his nose.  His eyebrows are tan, as is half his muzzle.  Quirky and utterly adorable.    You give him a gentle hug and a small pink tongue licks at the bottom of your chin.

Chris leans close and wrinkles up his nose as he too gets a lick.   “Awww.  Sorry dude.”  

You shift the warm furry load at your hip.  A moth flutters past and Chris looks up, startled, realizing belatedly you are still standing in front of the open door.  

“Whatever he is, he’s a cutie that’s for sure.  Bring him in.”    

He lets Dodger go and swings the white oak door shut, picks up the shopping bags while you walk over to the couch, balancing the awkward bundle of big paws and floppy ears and tail.  So much for cardio, it is suddenly resistance day.  

You lower yourself gingerly to the deep expanse of butter-soft, not-claw-proof leather as Chris slides across, dropping the bags to one side. The space is light and bright and so relaxing:  white walls and furniture, low rough wood tables and dark grey carpet. A haven from the bustle and noise of life.  

“You, too.  Sit,” Chris says, pointing a finger until Dodger finally masters his inner zen to settle down beside your knee.  The older dog is upright, tongue lolling and one ear cocked.  A picture of controlled exuberance.  His amber eyes keep flicking from puppy back to Chris.  

Puppy nestles into your lap and makes himself at home, sniffing at the air and taking in the members of a new pack.  You are clearly alpha female, chief cuddler and source of safety.   Chris is the alpha male:  one pat and the little guy rolls over to show his belly for a rub.  

Chris obliges; bends down to tickle warm pink spotted skin and gets licked excitedly on his chin for his efforts.    “Ow.”  he announces, laughing and holding a hand across his nose

The white milk teeth are sharp.  And curious. “Watch it little fella.

You smile because obviously Puppy’s starting to feel a little braver now but the sight of him mouthing earnestly on Chris’s offered fingers makes you wonder:  how does one keep a puppy from chewing up the furniture? You hadn’t thought beyond getting him safely home.   The expensive designer to-the-trade originals do already have a few puncture holes–Dodger is rambunctious-- but he wasn’t a baby when he came home.  It’s been years since you had a pet.  Your old dog, a white heinz 57 collie-samoyed mix with the honest-to-goodness name of Buck passed away your second year of college. He lived to be seventeen.  You can’t even remember what it was like to break in a puppy, but there must be somebody around to give you tips.  

“We need to set some water out for him and the new wee pads.” you note.  He has been so good.  Didn’t piddle once on the Uber ride home, or even when he was scared.    

Chris nods, unerringly reaching to scratch behind soft and silky ears. Puppy cocks his head and whines. “Check.  In a sec.  Does he have a name?”  

“No,” you admit. “The breeder had shitty records.  At Ace they called him by his number.  They think he’s about ten weeks old, just enough to be separated from his dam.  I bought some food and stuff.” you add, waving in the general direction of the bags. There’s a blue collar to match Dodger’s and a new leash,  a comb,  smaller steel bowls.  Hopefully they show you weren’t completely off your head, totally mesmerized by dark liquid eyes and a cute as a button nose.  

You blush, remembering the excitement of signing for him, holding him for the first time:  all pink toe beans and soft silky fur and new puppy smell.  Pure heaven.  And the right thing to do, give a home to a poor little abandoned soul in need of loving.  

(No ticking clocks, here.  Nope.   None at all.)

Puppy whines and sits straight up.  Coughs once.  Then twice. It’s a huffing, wheezy sort of hack that shakes the little dark body shake from pink nose to white tail tip.    

Chris looks over at you alarmed.  “Is he ok?”    

This time it’s you that melts a little.  Chris worries.  Always. Empathy, wrapped in caring, wrapped in genuine unselfishness.  

“He will be,” you explain, biting at your lip. “Just needs a little time.  He’s a rescue from a puppy mill.  The whole litter had pneumonia and he almost didn’t make it.”

“Oh fuck.”  Chris’s growl is quiet but you know how he feels about animal abuse.  The same way you do. Enraged.  

You pull the adoption papers out and pass them over.   Chris scans them, turning them over and checking the certificate from the shelter and its vet.  All is in order.  Case # A201206 has been dewormed.  Had all shots.  Weeks of  _Baytril_  for infection and supplements.   Has been off his feed because of illness.  Is paper trained.

“He’s done his shots and antibiotics, but needs a special diet ‘til he’s better.”

Chris is nodding, taking it all in, trading the pages back to you for a now braver little guy.  You reach down to pull a water bowl and a new blanket and Kong toy out of the first paper bag.

Puppy sits on the soft grey flannel of Chris’s sweat pants and leans against his chest, raising up one enormous paw to ask for attention.    Chris catches it in his own equally enormous hand and lets his blue gaze slide to the rubber chew toy that is easily twice as big as your fist.  

“How big is he gonna get?”

You flush.  This is the tricky part.   “Ummm, the lady said they don’t  _think_  he’ll get much bigger than seventy pounds.”

“ _Seventy_  pounds?!”

Incredulous, Chris looks down at Dodger obediently flopped on the floor and back up to the pup.  Dodger is lean and wiry, all muscle and energy; straight flat fur.  Puppy is a small mountain of dark wavy coat, paws not quite like dinner plates.  Hefty and solid.  He’s sitting placidly, taking up a good half of Chris’s lap at less than three months old.  

“Dodger’s only thirty pounds,” he frowns.

“I know,” you nod, “but his father was the Bernese. They’re more than a hundred.”  

Chris chokes.  “Jesuz, Y/N, that’s a pony not a dog!”    

You hold your breath.   This is a gamble.  Chris is obviously thrown by how big the pup will grow.  You can see the doubt begin to whirl like a cyclone in his head. “I don’t know…”  

You slide closer, up underneath the long, ridiculously muscled arm laid along the couch’s back,  reach out to stroke gently at his cheek.  A big dog is a big commitment, but from everything you know it fits with his big, golden heart.   “I feel like this meant to be.  You’ve said yourself that if you were an animal you’d be a St. Bernard.  He’s like your kindred spirit.  Bernese are also big and loyal and loving.  They adore kids.  But they get a little anxious in new and different settings.”      

“So you’re just like me, hunh?”  he says, a little skeptically, lifting the little guy with a firm grip around the middle. “Seventy pounds.   I’d be doing curls with you…”    

Puppy, oblivious to the moment, tries to gnaw on his largest knuckle.  

Doubt starts to curl low below your heart.  

Usually if Chris is into something new, your bouncy, exuberant Labrador of a boyfriend will be all over it.  Keen on it right away.  This time there’s an unsettled crease of worry between his brows and Chris is frowning.   Perhaps you hadn’t thought this through? This a puppy  _and_  a larger dog.   Perhaps you hadn’t considered how much more work one seems.  There’s a press tour to do for  _Avengers 3_ and  _4_. US press for  _Red Sea Diving_.  Possibly another Broadway run.  There’s a lot on Chris’s plate in the coming year but you’d just felt so bad for Dodger missing his big guy while he was half a world away.  But, if you had to be honest with yourself, you'll admit a needy pup would keep you little more occupied too.   Your job, back-of-house production, keeps you mostly in L.A, tied down and unable to go on tour.  It’s out of the Press’s eye which has its good and bad at once.   As far as much of the world knows you don’t exist.  You’re a name on the end credits.  Known as a studio employee, someone no one bats an eyelid to see Chris with.  A colleague. No biggie.

For the first months of your relationship it was actually kind of great.  Chris, beyond tired with the relentless attention messing with romances, treated it like a game.  You can go out and no prying idiots think you’re his date.  No one’s calling you a bitch on Twitter.  No one’s staking out your house.    Above the table top you are talking about scheduling and below his toes are running up  your calf. Hidden. Secret.  Just for you two. It’s a thrill and nervous making all at once.

You’re happy to have found the one awesome, caring, gorgeous guy in Hollywood who doesn’t brush his hair more often than you do.  Doesn’t tell you to keep out of his better light. Who isn’t jealous and gets your irregular have-to-stay-at-the-last-minute schedule. Who shares your manic love of baseball and the Pats.

But you are a little unsure of where this is going.  Sure he asked you to move in and both of his best friends have been missing Chris so much.  The frequent long distance trips make it hard.  Each time you are together it is as if you are on vacation: a treat, easy and relaxed but it’s also always reset mode.   Constantly catching up.  Two steps forward and one back.   Texting every day is great but it’s hard to properly communicate.   Case in point:  today, when you made a snap decision without discussing first, without thinking that he’s about to go on tour for  _weeks_.

“Sorry….” you admit in a tiny, plaintive voice.   “We do have a week to take him back.” You start to pull away, thinking you’ve overstepped the line.  

“Hey…hey, no it’s ok.”  Chris grabs your hand to pull you closer, plants a kiss on the top of your sun-faded Bosox cap.  He sighs. “This was a really good idea.  I might be crazy but I’ll make an appointment tomorrow for him to see Dr. Beltran.”

“Really?”  You sit straight up.  Dr. Beltran is Dodger’s veterinarian.  He is experienced and no-nonsense.  You’ve met him once, taking Dodger in for heart-worm meds.  “He can stay?  You’re not mad at me?”

“Of course I’m not mad, Y/N.”  Chris’s spare hand reaches down to play, as it always does at home, with your long ponytail.  Relaxed and intimate.  It sends a shiver down your spine.  

“How can anyone resist this face?”  he says, tickling Puppy under the chin.  It’s true. The little guy’s face is the sweetest thing—a black nose with a pale dot in the middle, bright dark eyes and the most adorable pink tongue sticking out.  You’re lost, the both of you.  

Chris offers Puppy a thumb to chew and grins.  “I was just surprised.  Needed to think it through.  Next time you decide to add to our world, can you give a guy a little warning?”

“You seemed so tired and I didn’t want to wake you,” you start to explain,  but then suddenly his words sink in.

 _Our_   _world_.  

“What do you me….?”  

You stop and take in the pure unfettered delight on Chris’s face. He knows he has surprised you.  ‘ _Our world’_ means this is for keeps.  Serious. He wants you to be an official couple. It’s overwhelming, and unexpected.  Perhaps the constant roadblocks are wearing on him too.  

Your heart does a heavy flip, somersaulting with giddy happiness.  

Chris smiles, drops a gentle kiss to your lips, holds it until the pup begins to squirm.  

“Babe, this last tour, oh fuck, I missed you so so much. London’s great but I couldn’t wait to get back and be with you.  Knowing you and Dodge and this little guy are happy and at home,  _here_ ,—that will mean the world.”    

You pull away but not too far, lay your head down upon his shoulder, so choked up you don’t know what to say.  Going public seems like a giant step.  Your bosses, the Russo brothers, know about it, as do both families and close friends—but they’re sworn to secrecy.  Chris is gunshy of the media this time—how Jenny was treated really hurt and he wanted things to grow away from the harsh glare of publicity.

You take a deeper, unsteady breath.  This is truly what you want but can you make it work?  

Chris, as always in tune to you, gives you a soft quick hug and elects to change the conversation.  He stretches, holding one big warm hand under puppy and the other up toward the ceiling.  “Man you were right about the tired though. Shit.  I am getting old.  The flights are getting harder.”  

“If you’re old, what does that make me?” you ask.  You are almost, not quite, two years ahead.  

“Ancient.”  

He ducks a tastefully neutral, well-used, toss cushion as it flies past his head.  Dodger’s head pops up.  If pillows are flying and his human is stretching then a game of tag might be just ahead.  He gets to his feet, yips excitedly but instead of playtime he gets wobbly curiosity.  Chris sets the puppy on the floor.  The little guy promptly lunges for a shoe, trips over his own feet and tumbles snout-first into deep grey pile.

You all laugh.  Puppy looks up at the sound and you could swear he grins.  This new development is surprising but not scary.  He sneezes, rights himself again, sits down with a blink and barks.  

“Woof!”   It is a surprisingly deep sounding voice.  

“Ho boy, has he got a set of lungs.”  Chris is laughing.  Puppy seems very pleased with himself.   A few minutes cautious exploration brings him over to the wide back windows.  Outside the morning is clouding over.  It will keep the heat from climbing and for a miracle it might just rain.  Puppy wags his tail and barks at a passing bird.  Dodger stands sentinel behind, tail waving slowly, resident expert at communing placidly with the neighbourhood.  

Pup looks to him and back.  “Boof!”   Nope, the new kid on the block isn’t going to get a rise out of Dodger.   Birds and bees and butterflies are people, too.

They seem fine to let be left alone for a just minute, so you rise and set about getting organized.   A second dish of water goes beside Dodger’s in the kitchen.  Pad are laid beside the back door.  The new blanket is draped beside Dodger’s wicker basket.  You set the ingredients for puppy lunch on the countertop and pull the rudiments of a sandwich from the bursting fridge

From the couch you can hear Chris’s stomach grumble loudly.   He may be exhausted but his stomach thinks it’s almost time for English Tea.    

“Come on, you never ate,” you say, pulling him up and guiding him over to the kitchen.  “Lets get the little guy’s space all set.  He’ll need to eat soon and then go out.  We can play with him outside and then it will be time for a nap.”  

Over by the windows Dodger has brought puppy a bedraggled, one-eared teddy he uses for a friend.   They play tug of war, shaking their heads and mock growling at each other, the pup repeatedly losing his grip but bouncing forward to catch a leg again.    It’s hilarious and sweet.  Big brother playing with the little guy,  but just when you think they’ll start another round the little guy plonks down on his butt, opens his jaws wide and yawns.  And coughs.  

“Hey!”  

He’s scooped up into Chris’s big strong arms and nestled against that wide, sleep-inducing chest.   A whine turns into another mighty yawn, the baby is getting tired.   It’s been a busy day and he isn’t quite over his sickness yet.  

You wrap your arms around them both and Chris drops a kiss onto your head.  He smells like spice and soap and Dodger and the warm-cinnamon-bun perfection of new puppy smell.   Intoxicating.

As you brush your fingers lazily across his back he grins, folds you under his shoulder where you fit the best.  There’s a twinkle in his eye.  One you’ve missed for two whole weeks.

“How long does a puppy sleep?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Aowwoooo….”

“Aowwoooo….”

“What time is it?”  Chris slurs softly into your ear as you shake off the heavy sand of sleep.  You lift a limp hand to the headboard and fumble blindly for a minute: it’s broad and deep, hides an entire bookcase inside, and is way too handy for dropping things.  Tv remote?  No. Book? No.  Sir Richard’s wrapper.  Snork.  A minute’s awkward searching finally finds your phone; you drag it back down to the safety of the blankets where you blink blearily at the screen.  

5:05 AM.

 _Oh god._   Too early.  Waaay too early to be awoken when you’re both off from work today.  

And have already been up at two.  

You stretch and drop the phone back down.  “Five,” you offer to the furnace-hot, starfish-shaped figure in the bed. You’re pinned.  One long leg is draped across your calves, one arm is heavy on your stomach and the other is folded below Chris’s pillow.  Even sleeping on his stomach, he keeps the connection between you both.  You poke gently at a muscled shoulder and try to shift your hips.

“Hey.”

Chris turns his pillowed head back your way and cracks an eye half open.  “Must be Abbey nex’ door. Go back to sleep.”  

Abbey, his neighbor’s eight month old, is teething.  When the wind is just right you can hear her crying plain as day. Could be.  You shrug and pull the sheet higher up your shoulder, tuck your head back down, trying to drop off.  It’s futile.  Tired limbs might be sinking lead-heavily into the cushy expanse of high-tech foam but your brain won’t let it go.  Abbey usually sounds a little flatter; more wail than howl–she must be suffering, poor thing.    

You turn underneath that heavy arm and slide across the bed to lie sideways against his solid frame, tucking your head below Chris’s chin.   “Hun, I can’t.”  

There comes a quiet sigh.  “Hmmm.” You nuzzle at Chris’s throat.  A slow smile spreads across his lips.   The hand that had rested on your stomach skims up across your back; draws lazy circles at the same time the suede-soft top of his foot caresses along your calf.

 _Sneaky man_.  He knows you can’t resist the incongruous delicacy of his touch; the feather light brush that makes you melt and ache for something stronger.    The unhurried glide— back and forth, soft and smooth and warm—reminds you of other, more interesting bits of his skin you like to touch.   _Hnnggg_.  You shiver. Little flames of need lick across your skin to settle in your core.  

It’s torture, slow and lazy, and does not stop.

“Chriss….” you moan and his answering chuckle rumbles enticingly at your ear.  He knows exactly what this is doing to.   And he is enjoying every minute.

“What would you like me to do about that?” he whispers, twisting his hips; tugging  you closer and  spooning snuggly up behind so that a particular warm muscle throbs insistently along your butt.

 _Oh god. Not fair._  Someone is now clearly more awake. Downey, new-trimmed beard tickles as he noses softly behind your earlobe, drops open-mouthed hot butterflies at the cool of your nape.  

You shudder.  Not fair at all, the way he plays your body like an instrument.  

Strong fingers grip harder at the curve of your hipbones, pull your backside tight against his groin.  A telltale stripe of warm and wet paints along your folds.

 _Very_  awake, your boyfriend.  And ready.  And needy as you are.    

“Aowwoooo….”          

Both of you still at once.  The high wail knifes through the door again; louder this time and with it, quite obviously more near. Realization dawns.

“Puppy!” you cry, bolting upright up in the bed. He’s just outside the bedroom door, next to Dodger’s comfy bed in his shiny, new, bought-just-in-time-before Ace-closed, puppy crate.  

He’s awake and wants to be let out.  

“Jeez, it is.”  Chris sighs, throws an arm across his eyes.  Yup.  He’s just been cockblocked by a furball somewhere between a breadbox and a microwave in size.  For a second you worry he is annoyed but then the wail becomes a steady whimpering and your heart breaks a little bit.  

Puppy’s been kenneled his whole life but now he’s separated from his pack.

Chris feels it too: his frown melts into a worried twist of concern.  “I’ll get him.”  

He rolls away, nabs his discarded boxers from the floor, hoping in place while struggling to pull them on.  Another sound has joined the first.  The odd scraping thud of Dodger pawing at your door.  “Fuck. I’m coming.”  

Chris yanks on the door handle and reaches down for a collar. “Dodger, sit!”  

Dodger obediently sets his haunches down and you hear the squeak of new metal clasps.

The whining immediately stops.   "Good boy!"   Puppy is now yipping excitedly at the seeing the head of his pack.  You can hear Chris's feet padding on the wood of the floor as he heads to the terrace door.

“He didn’t cry at 2!”  you call hastily pulling one of Chris’s rattier NASA sweatshirts down over your head. It’s too long and covers you to mid-thigh.  Enough to chase away the chill if you are racing for the piddle pad.

“We had to wake him to let him out!” Chris calls back.  True, Puppy had been tuckered out from an entirely exhausting day, but you hadn’t processed the fact he’s on a baby’s schedule: waking and feeding every few hours at a time.  

Thank heaven Chris reacted fast.

“Good boy!”

The chorus of encouragement rings quietly in the cool pre-dawn air after the black ball of fluff scrambles out of Chris’s arms to squat on the still dewy grass. Just in time.  Puppy would be miserable if he had to wet his bed.

You both sit, bleary-eyed and yawning, knee to knee on the nearest lounger while Puppy snuffles happily.  He seems bouncy and alert, snapping unsuccessfully at the drunken wobbling of a moth.  Over by the firepit Dodger marks ‘his’ tree and trots back in through the sliding door. He knows the sun won’t be up for an hour yet.

“Did Dodger cry like this when he came home?” you ask, half knowing the answer that you’ll get.  Dodger may be high energy, a pup at heart, and ready to play at the drop of a hat, but he is almost preternaturally quiet voiced.  You’ve hardly ever heard him bark.  

Chris shakes his head.  “Naw. He’d been in the pound so long I think he learned not to add to the fray. But oh man, the moment I opened the door of his crate.  He just exploded out.”

You both grin.  Of course he did.  Dodger is always overjoyed to be out in the wider world, with his Chris and playing, so much so that you’d been unsure how he would take to you at first.  You had quite literally evicted him from his place on Chris’ pillow–but the past three months showed the pooch could take some change in his stride.  He was fine as long as he had his Chris.  In time he leaned happily against your side when you all flaked out to watch a show; ran with you obediently on lead; listened when you told him no.  He was a good dog. The best, Chris always said, although he’d said that about East too.

Chris yawns, pushes off the chair with his hands, stands and stretches as the faint breeze raises goosebumps on his skin.  It’s not warm enough yet to be naked out of doors.  He reaches out a long arm to pull you up.  

You smile and you wrap your arms as far around as you can reach.   “You don’t have fur.  You need a shirt.”  

“I do,” he agrees, planting a quick kiss on your forehead.  “And food.  I think my stomach is still on London time.”  Sure enough, it rumbles. Right on cue and loudly enough for you both to hear.

Chris turns around, runs his fingers through his hair and scans for the pup.

A tie on the other lounger's pad is under an adorably ferocious attack.  Puppy’s growling, shaking his head back and forth and tugging on the string.  

“Hey! Stop that,” you scold, lacing both hands underneath his fuzzy tummy.  You lift the wriggling, protesting bundle up in your arms and frown.  Day two and he is chewing the furniture.  Already.

Chris shrugs at the concern upon your face.  “Bound to happen sometime.”  He leans over for another kiss and laughs as he gets a lick underneath his chin. “Come on, Y/N.  Guess we better get him breakfast, too.  Doesn’t look like we’re going back to bed.”  

You don’t. Not for hours anyway,      

———————

The first days pass in such a blur you are so thankful you took time off.  Just like a baby, routine is important: exercise-meal, exercise-bonding time is the schedule. Five feeds a day.  Potty time every three hours and up at least once a night. ‘Good, bad, no” get repeated so frequently you begin to hear it in your sleep.    

Puppy eats and sleeps so much you swear can almost see him grow.  The first bowl of plain white fish (easy on a little stomach queasy from the meds) vanishes in a flash; chunks flying everywhere, stomach soon so full you can almost see the food poking out.

“Hey slow down, buddy.”  Chris holds him as you pull the bowl away.  He doesn’t fuss or snap, doesn’t try to eat Dodger’s food. Good boy, indeed.  It’s reassuring, as is the slowing frequency of coughs.          

The first time you let him run in the angled long backyard, Chris winds up doubled over laughing, hand over his mouth, as the little black ball streaks along behind his older ‘brother’.  

“Look at him go!”  

Indeed. Puppy is scampering as fast as his little legs will take him, silky ears flapping like he’s trying to lift off.   It’s hilarious.  And adorably awkward.  Giant paws on short stubby legs are hard to handle.   He trips over his ungainly paws, lands snout-first and whines. Dodger hustles back.  A quick sniff and nuzzle reassures that Puppy is fine and so the romp begins again.  They both find one end of a rubber bone and the inevitable tussle ends in startled yip.  Dodger, way more coordinated, has flipped over Puppy on his back.            

“Dodger, you meatball. Go easy on the little guy,”

Chris starts to jog over but Puppy seems ok. He rights himself, sneezes and looks utterly startled to find an ant upon his nose.  You’re laughing.  At Chris’s whistle Dodger bounds back, with Puppy in hot pursuit, tongue lolling out, brows furrowed as if to say  “why can’t I catch him?”    

The two of them pelt into the dining room, toenails clacking on the hardwood as they skitter to a stop.  Water is slurped messily, food bowls are dispatched and then they are off again: through the back door and out onto the deck where Puppy comes to a screeching halt.

Steps down are scary.

No amount of coaxing and cajoling from the alphas of the group can convince him to put a paw lower down.  You wind up once again carrying him down, settling him on your lap in the sun while Chris and Dodger play.      

“He needs a name,” you announce as the Frisbee soars above your head.

Chris pulls the disc from Dodger’s mouth and tosses it again.  “How about Scamp?”

Disney dogs?  Of course. Your boyfriend is the only guy you know who’s memorized Oliver and Company and Lady and the Tramp.  

You laugh and shake your head.  “Too small.”

“Tramp?”

You raise your eyebrows.  Berners are way more dignified than that. “Nuh unh.”  

‘Happy’ fits but doesn’t feel quite right. Nor does ‘Oliver’, ‘Bernard’ or “Louie.” Dodger sits patiently as Chris frowns thoughtfully and rubs his nape.  “How about Ryder, after Flynn Ryder?”

A possibility.  There is certainly every chance that Puppy will become a thief.   Soon he’ll be nicking socks and scarves any chance he gets.  

“What do you think?” you ask, shaking one of his paws.  He yawns and sprawls across your lap, not much interested in the game. Ryder does sound cool but somehow quite isn’t  _it_.  

Licking your lips in thought, you decide, “I don’t think so.”  

Puppy yawns again, gnaws at your fingers as you pause to inspect his satin paw.  His nails are a little long: they will need clipping and you wonder how this heavy coat will do in the California heat. He’ll be sweltering.  Coat clipping will have to be introduced.  

That reminds you of the text you got last night.  Like the proudest mom around, you’ve already put Puppy up on your Instagram private page.  Your folks responded right away, sending an enthusiastic hi and a picture of their Berner, Emma;  all sleek and glossy from the groomer.  

They’re thrilled for you,  so ready to be Grandpuppyparents and have already suggested names.  

“Dad’s wants Tito,” you note teasingly, grinning at how this will be received.  No way Jose, will Chris go for a name from Bosox rival.

“That’s cuz he’s a traitor and a Cleveland fan,” Chris growls, blue eyes twinkling. You laugh but don’t demur.  It is halfway true but in point of fact, it is you that are the traitor.   Tito is Cleveland’s manager.  He’s a god in northeast Ohio and Columbus is your hometown.  

“He doesn’t look like a Tito, How about another?”

‘Einstein’? ‘Francis’? ‘Patch’?  All are rejected.  ‘Lucky’ fits but you point out it is already taken by Clint Barton’s one-eyed sidekick.  

Chris keeps tossing the Frisbee out and Dodger keeps running back.  

“How about Frodo?”  It is something of a tradition in your family to use Lord of the Rings for names as you and your little sis are huge Tolkien fans.  Your old guy Buck had been short for Brandybuck.

Chris laughs.  “What kind of nerdy name is that?”

“No nerdier than Einstein.”

Dodger bounds out past the pool and roots beneath the scarlet glory of a giant rhododendron.  He doesn’t find the Frisbee but pops up with something else, A baseball.  Roughed up and grass-stained, ropy-looking but with the red B still visible.

You are appalled.  An official Red Sox ball and Chris let’s his mutt slobber on it?!  You are about to take the piss from him but then a thought occurs.  Red Sox names.  What’s not to like?  If anything you are the bigger fan in this fledgling household.

“How about ‘Yaz’ for Carl Yaztremski?”

Chris prys the ball from Dodger’s mouth, walks over and settles down on the stone beside your knee; scratching his patiently standing pal behind the ear. “Not bad, but I like Carlton better.”

Carlton? Seriously?  A guy otherwise called ‘Pudge’?  No thanks. “How about after David Priiiice?”

Chris raises an eyebrow at your admiring tone.  “Oh, so you like him do you?”

“Unh hunh, that is one hot pitcher.”  

Hoowee…he is.  Funny and ferocious, your favorite guy on the team, though he can’t hold a candle to Chris in looks and charm.  You grin and stroke Puppy on the back, smoothing the waves of curly fur, waiting for the response.

Chris pulls a mock angry face.  “No way. Not namin’ him after my competition.”

“No one can compete with you.”  You plant a kiss on Chris’s cheek and as you lean across Puppy doesn’t budge.  He must be tired.  Soon it will be nap time but right now you’re having fun.  The sun is warm.  The day stretches ahead with no responsibility and Chris is home, happy and relaxed.  Turning his head, he captures your lips in his.

 _Mmmmm._   He tastes of coffee and chocolate from the croissants you bought at Viktor Bene’s.  For a moment you are both lost.  Dodger flops down with a heavy sigh, sets his head on his paws and waits.  He’s seen this before.  The hoomins are at it again.  

You lean farther in, tangle a hand in Chris’s hair but a sudden indignant squeak reminds you your lap is full.  Oops.   “Sorry pup.”  

Where were you?  Oh yes. Names.  Reluctantly you pull apart and try again.  

“Brock?” Brock Holt, the Sox’s young outfielder, is puppyish enough.  

Chris shakes his head.  “Not going there.  All I can think of is Rumlow.  Puppy is too sweet and loyal and besides, Frank would never let me live it down.”

He has a point.   “Mookie?”

“Maybe if he was a cat.”

“If he was a cat then he would absolutely be ‘Sox’.”    

This is true.  You’re ready to give it a rest but Chris is biting his lip, knee jangling, energy pent up. You know that look. Determined and hyper-focused.  He wants to settle this right now.   “We could call him ‘Gronk’.  His feet are big enough.”

Gronk for the Patriot’s Rob Gronkowski.  You laugh out loud, just picturing yelling that at the local dog park. “Only if you want to sound like a goose.”

Chris chuckles.  “Ok, how about ‘Brady’ then?”

This sets you laughing so hard you can hardly speak, coughing and spluttering, trying to get your breath under control. “ ‘Brady?’  Seriously?  You’d name him after your main bromance?”  

Chris sits up straighter.   “What? It’s a great name.  Too much fanboi?”

You shake your head, holding onto an excited pup who’s trying to nip at  your ear.   “Hey, off.”  Puppy settles at once and you smile.  Good boy.  He’s learning fast. 

You cock your head and look across at Chris. He looks little offended but is trying not to let it show.  “Hun, the whole world knows you are in love with Tom.  You spilled your drink on national television.  The rags would troll you so hard.”

Word of your new addition gets around.  That afternoon a text comes in from Scott.  He’s in Vancouver, finishing a shoot of another episode of  _Daytime Divas_.  Chris pauses with Puppy under one arm and his phone in the other hand, showing you the screen.  “He votes for Copper.”  

“I didn’t know there was a diaper emoji,” you remark, gazing at the string of characters. If there is one thing his family knows about Chris, it’s that his clock is ticking louder than Big Ben.

“Well, we know there is a poop one.”    

Uhm, yes. Just like a baby, Puppy eats and poops a lot.

Carly and Shanna and Lisa all call or text, thrilled for Dodger and you both. It feels like you spend the morning on your cell and tucking shoes away that are far too tempting for a teething little guy.  After lunch Chris’s iPhone buzzes once again.  He’s on the floor, has lost a game of tag and is letting both Dodger and Puppy pile on.

You hand over the phone and pull a way-overly-excited, yapping bundle off.  

It’s Mackie from New Orleans.  As usual he is the worst.  “Another dog? Dude you are so going down. That’s a training baby right there, is what that is.  Tell Y/N she better watch out.  Finally found a chick who’ll put up with a pooch who is a bigger star than you and before you know it you will be stuffing little plastic plugs in sockets.”  

 _Rude_.  But Anthony does have a point.  Having a new puppy is a bit like being parents.  He cries in the night. Needs to be toilet trained.  Soothed when the brief instances of separation anxiety hit.

You so need baby-proofing.

The point is brought graphically home the next breakfast time.  The perimeter fencing is set, no matter how big Puppy grows he’s safe from the rather startling cliff, but it is the interior you’d not thought much about.

“Can you get that?”  Chris yells from the shower when the doorbell rings.  

You leave aside your yogurt and granola, open the front door and sign for the script that’s arrived FedEx from New York.  Puppy, over his fear of steps, darts out, tail spinning, to investigate the exciting new visitor.  

For a minute or two you chat with the brown-clad messenger about the haze of wildfires in the air.  You’ve signed for the package and begun to head back inside before you realize that something’s missing.  

Where’s Puppy?  

 _Oh god_.  You can’t see him anywhere.

You whistle the double note that worked before and take a quick turn around the yard, heart in mouth, worried sick that he’s somehow out on the busy street. He’s not in the garage.  Not by the front firepit.  Not struggling caught on the glossy but annoying summer holly. You are just about to call for Chris when you hear his booming laugh.  From the kitchen.  Inside the house.  

“Y/N, come look at this!”

Puppy stands on the granite island, one paw on the table mat and one ear in your breakfast bowl.  He’s slurping down the last of your cereal like it’s his last meal on earth.  

Droplets of milk and yogurt are flying everywhere.  

“Puppy, no!”  

Puppy looks up, his brown liquid eyes pleading forgiveness, and a big blob of yogurt on one corner of his muzzle.

 _Oh boy_.  He knows he is in big trouble.  

You glare at Chris who is still over by the fridge laughing hard.   At the shocked expression on your face.  

 _Thanks,_  you think, wondering which of them is the bigger kid.   Chris.  Probably.  Although only by a hair.  

You grab a paper towel and lift Puppy down from the countertop.   Yes he is big.  And smart.  And going to be more trouble than Dodger ever was.    

After lunch you go shopping for a baby gate and outlet covers.

“Congratulations,” chirps the Target salesgirl brightly, as she scans the tag on a white safety gate. “Tara” is the name on her red polo top.  You’re sure she’s served you both before, has seen you in the checkout several times with Chris and once asked for his autograph.  

“Babies are such fun.” she goes on, placing the last pack of clear plugs into the bag. “You’re Chris Evan’s new girlfriend aren’t you?  When are you due?”

 _Due?_     _What?!_   “I’m not pregnant. I’m not..”  you hasten to explain, beyond shocked that she would think you were expecting. “We just got a puppy,”  

“Oh. That’s great!”  Tara is beaming.  Obviously she’s the type who is positive no matter what you say,   but then, as she hands across the credit card receipt, the impact of what you’d answered sinks in.  

 _“We.”_     _Oh god._    You’ve just admitted you are a  _thing_.  No one til now has twigged that you were a couple.  Had any reason to notice  _you_ , at least not when you were away from a Marvel event, and honestly unless you are at Chris’s side, why would anyone care?  

But now?  Your stomach sinks.   What was it Jenny said?  ‘One of the most objectified men in the world?’    

The last thing Chris needs is a wild rumor starting up.

You grab the ties of the ridiculously enormous cloth shopping bag in your suddenly sweating palms and practically bolt for the door;  hustle through the parking lot and slide the bag into the Lexus’s back seat.  

Once you drop down into the driver’s seat, your heart starts pounding.  A 350-pound gorilla of anxiety sits on your chest.   Was that too close?  Have you blown your cover?  Should you have tried Amazon same-day so no one puts two and two together?  You’ve only been living together for a little time.  Now that you have a joint ‘responsibility,’ how ever will you keep your status hidden from the paparazzi’s spying eyes?        

The key hovers poised at the ignition for far too long. What had you done? Had you ruined everything on an impulse? With a whimper your forehead falls slowly forward to rest on the steering wheel.  

A rap comes on the glass.

“Miss are you ok?”  

You roll down the window.  A worried looking teen in cap and red and khaki uniform has one hand on a row of carts and the other on your door.  He looks vastly relieved now that you’ve lifted your face from the steering wheel. The yellow light on the cart-pusher in the back of the row blinks at you while you try to pull yourself together.  

“Fine. Fine, thanks,” you add belatedly, doing your best to smile.  You are fine, you are. The boy seems convinced, because after a nod he begins to push the row of red plastic carts toward a small corral.

You shove the key into the column, turn the engine on, check the back up camera and the mirror, noting how pale you look.  And tired. That must be it: you’re tired from getting up in the night and not quite thinking straight.   Gingerly, you pull left onto Mulholland’s winding, palm-lined drive, only half-focused on Beverly Hills’ usual congested traffic, navigating by instinct, vastly relieved when you climb Laurel Canyon up to the familiar white stucco’d wall.  

There is no one lurking by the access gate.  Ok. Maybe you’ve overreacted a little bit   but you pull quickly through just in case, stop behind your more prosaic CRV.  

“Babe, I’m home!” you call, dumping the bag on the coir front mat.  

“Hey, he did a sit!”  Chris bounces excitedly from the dressing room, Puppy following in his wake.  “For just a minu…”  

His words trail off suddenly.  You’re chewing on the end of your ponytail.  Just as you always do when you’re upset 

“What’s wrong?”  His blue eyes plead just like Puppy’s did before.    

How could you explain?  It was ridiculous, getting so panicked by a clerk but the truth that is you’re not quite wired for this.   Keeping things secret had been fun at first but now you’re finding it a strain.  Spontaneity is one of the things Chris loves about you.  You can’t stop being impulsive and blurting out the truth just because he’s famous. It’s too hard.  

You recount your awkward conversation at the store.   “I think I blew our cover. I’m sorry,” you mumble at last into Chris’s chest.  He’s brought those big strong arms up to cradle you, strokes his hands gently up and down your back while you blow out a long steadying breath.  A firm press of lips brushes at your temple.  

“Not sorry, Y/N.”   You start to protest but he puts a finger to your lips.  “It was bound to happen sometime soon.  We’ll handle it.  Get Josh to put out a note.”    Josh Lieberman is his lawyer.  A pro. Knowing that he has a team who work it through makes you feel a little better but still you’re worried.  Chris pulls back, tucks one finger under your chin and tilts your head up to gaze into your eyes.   “It’s ok.  Really. The red carpet for ‘Red Sea’ is six weeks away.  You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

A debut? You nod is a little wobbly.  Of course you’d like to be there with him, but coming out at premiere?  It would be a zoo.  He’s sees your hesitation.  

“We’ll keep it under wraps ‘til then.  There’s no guarantee she will say anything.”

There isn’t. Not everyone in Hollywood wants to make a buck from hotline tips.  And Red Sea will not be as bad as Infinity Wars.  That would be a nightmare. 

You sigh and feel a warm heaviness land upon your feet.  The dogs have found you.  Dodger is pressed anxiously against your calf.  Puppy is licking at your shin.  You can feel their anxiety: their ‘mom’ is sad and they want to help.

You drop a hand down to pet each fuzzy head.   “Yes,” you nod, smiling shyly through a sudden rush of tears.  You’re home.  And loved. By three awesome guys. Everything will work out all right.  ”  

 You hope.


	3. Chapter 3

You never planned on falling for Chris Evans. 

 Nope.   Nuh-unh.   You were not gonna go there.  

 You had just ended two years of heartbreak.  Sworn off of dating another working actor because self-absorption is really not your thing and you have no interest in a man mobbed by eager skirts (the perils of _that_ scene you’ve learned the hard and public way).  

 But then on a bright, hard blue Atlanta morning, like most things in your life, it just sort of happens accidentally _.….._  

 Anthony Russo stands frowning down at his phone, thumbing his newest text away before sliding his glasses up on his head. 

 He’s frazzled and unusually irritated: already sweating even though it’s five am.   The city is in heatwave and the production team are trying to get filming up and going before the sun makes the actors’ lives too miserable.  In half an hour they are due to be on Infinity Wars’ sprawling set. 

 “Oh christ, not another one,” he mutters, shaking his ahead and pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly.  It _is_ too early.  You are all wiped after months of location filming—coping with Murphy’s law and Mother Nature’s whim and as per usual every little thing that can go wrong has spiked the wheels.      

 “What’s up?” you ask, turning your attention from marking up a message board. 

 “Shiree’s got stomach flu.”  

 Ugh.  Shiree, a bouncy and fresh-faced CalState undergrad, is the sixth person on the crew to go down with a bug.   Not an auspicious sign.  You’ll have to check in with catering.  It might simply be the unrelenting heat or there might be a real problem with cross-contamination. 

 Either way, you are now unhelpfully another Runner down. 

 You swipe your ipad, pull up the day’s crew call.  It’s a mess of strike-outs and red-lined  arrows.  Everyone is already replacing someone else. 

 “I’ll sub,” you offer quickly and Anthony looks up, grateful but hesitant.  It’s not your job. Getaway Productions still needs you for continuity but after ten years in you are pretty sure you can multi-task. 

 Blindfolded and walking backwards. 

 “You sure?” 

 “Yup.  Totally. I am a master at pouring brown bilge water into too thin paper cups.”  

Anthony grins.  Both of you have been there, way back in your resumes. It’s part of the biz.   “Thanks, Y/N.”

This is how you wind up an hour later with hot coffee dripping off your hand,   apologizing to the film’s tall bearded lead. 

The actors for the morning’s scenes are gathered in an unusually bleary group.  Quiet but intent, listening to Joe’s breakdown of the sequencing.   You are just about to tap on “Steve Rogers’ shoulder and offer him a cup of joe when Dave Bautista, that mountain of a man seemingly wide as he is tall, shuffles in a little late. 

He crosses too close behind you, bumps his massive bulk against your shoulder and you are knocked straight forward. 

Into Chris Evan’s broad and muscled back.

“Fuck, what?”  Chris exclaims, turning around, surprised and startled as half a cup of black no sugar (ugh why was the lid too loose?) seeps into the dark Nomad suit. 

You stand there, appalled, shaking the liquid off your hand and trying to ignore the sting.   The coffee was hot.  Too hot.   Fresh out of the canteen and hopefully hasn’t burned his skin.  Oh god.  

“Mr Evans, I am so, so sorry!”  Your words are almost tripping over each other in your haste to apologize.  “Are you ok?” 

“Fine. I’m fine,” he says, craning his neck and rubbing at the dark wet patch that spreads from his lower back to his buttocks. “Just wet.  Don’t worry about me.  Are you …??”   He looks up and his tawny brows tug together.  “Sorry, I don’t know your name.”   

You’re not surprised.  There are literally dozens of people on the set and no reason for you to have met before.  You spend your days mostly holed up inside the production trailer. 

“Y/N,” you answer as Chris grabs the dripping cardboard tray and reaches for your wrist.  It’s red.  He’s frowning; holding it incredibly gently in fingers twice the size of yours.   “You’re burned.”

“It’s nothing,” you reply automatically, although it really isn’t.  The skin is bright red and stings a bitch; the sharp pain getting worse by the minute.  You don’t have time for this.  Your job is to keep filming rolling, not slow it down.   

Gingerly, you wiggle your phone from your jeans back pocket, more worried for the moment that wardrobe needs a call.  Chris has Nomad’s tan gloves tucked into his belt.  God you hope that they aren’t trashed. It would ruin close-up shots. “I’ll get Lena to come down with a dryer, Mr. Evans.  I hope the stain won’t show.” 

“Fuck the stain,” Chris counters softly.  He steps nearer to get a better look at you.  The furrow on his brow gets deeper.  This close he is even bigger than you thought, smells like coffee and wet leather and spice, anything but threatening.  In the shade, his sapphire eyes look darker, mysteriously match the blue star stitched above his pec. 

“You need this checked. It might blister.  And get infected.”   The litany of possible negative repercussions trails off mercifully but before you can protest he signals to another runner with a microphone.  “Call the paramedics.” 

Shit.  That does it.  The alert goes out and you both stand, waiting for the medical people to arrive when   _both_ Anthony and Joe muscle through the group.  The speech is finished.  You realize that around your little world, Falcon and Winter Soldier, Star Lord and Dax have melted away, back to the Milano mock-up. 

Joe looks anxiously between you and Chris, at first uncertain who is the patient, but then he notices your hand cradled in Chris’s larger one.  “Y/N are you ok? What happened?”    

“Accident,” Chris says immediately and you flush, embarrassed to have caused a ruckus and acutely aware of how unprofessionally close you are.   You pull back a little farther, but he doesn’t let you go.

“It’s nothing, Mr. Russo.  I spilled coffee on Mr. Evans’ suit.”

“It’s not nothing.  You’re hurt.  And call me Chris, will you please?”

He smiles, lopsided and half-bashful, absently rubbing cool and soothing fingers next to your stinging skin and that’s all it takes.  A few awkward, fleeting minutes before the cavalry arrives and your heart will be lost— tumble down between life’s cushions where you don’t think to look—but in the moment you stand mesmerized, vaguely aware that Anthony’s talking quickly into his mike, motioning for the goulishly curious to be kept at bay.  Most oblige, except for a thin, fresh-faced and way too earnest guy in a Nasa hoodie and headset.  He’s hovering, trying to get Chris’s attention, because Nomad’s needed on set in twenty, but Chris insists on waiting until the call comes to actually take his mark; stands watching patiently while a blue-gloved EMT pronounces it “only low second degree”.

“Second!”  Chris looks ready to freak out but gentle-voiced paramedic explain that there are only a few small, pinprick blisters coming up.  Nothing that won’t heal quite quickly if you keep it clean and dry. 

“Mr. Evans?” 

“Mr. Evans?”  NASA guy looks so pained he might combust.

“Coming Matt.”   The Russos, reassured it’s nothing serious, have already headed to the first scene set.  Chris sighs and meets your gaze. “Sorry.  Gotta go.”

“I’m fine.  Thank you,” you nod but he’s gone--a retreating smudge of sable in a sea of purple minions.   

It feels like the morning’s sunshine has been covered by bank of high, dark cloud 

 _Good grief Y/N.  Get a grip._  

After that you sit in a hastily retrieved folding chair (Ms Saldana it says on back)  feeling a little bewildered and a whole lot rattled.  The paramedic slathers on a blessedly cool antiseptic cream; covers the burn loosely and orders you to get it checked tomorrow if it swells or oozes overnight.  You take some painkillers, rest for an hour or two on Russos’ orders but after lunch carry on again. certain that Chris has forgotten all about the morning’s mess, but then at 3 o’clock Matt finds you in the producer’s huddle. 

He hands you a note handwritten on a concession napkin. 

_I don’t have your number.  Are you ok? -C_

Your eyes bug out.Yes that certainly seems to be a phone number on the back. 

Omg.  

You pull out your iphone and, weirdly nervous, have to type the number twice. 

_< I’m ok.  And thanks!>    _

Of course there will be no immediate response.  The actors’ phones stay mostly in their trailers when they are on set.  You try not to check for a reply, keep mostly occupied with  updating the afternoon scene list, when a telltale buzz fires at your hip. 

You swipe the screen with your other hand.   

< _So relieved.  See you at D’s? >_ 

D’s is Dene’s, the pub around the corner from the mini city of Getaway’s Atlanta hub.   The cast and crew often hang there at the end of a long hot day, for the Sweetwater homebrews and the chicken biscuits.  It’s tempting, though honestly you’d thought of nothing more than going home; lying down and just putting the day behind you.

But Chris.  Has asked. himself.  It would be good to say thanks again: you weren’t sure he had heard you, having run off so fast.   The call sheet might say you start at the usual ungodly hour but Anthony _had_ ordered you to rest. 

_Come on, Y/N.  What would it hurt?_

You gather up your satchel, toss the gauze and polysporin the medic gave you into the zippered pocket and sling it over your shoulder, drive the two short blocks to Dene’s to make it easy heading home

Once in the high ceilinged, noisy space you pull up a seat at the bar and get a soda—you are driving and took pain meds--striking up a chat with Will, one of the best steadicam operators you’ve worked with.  The two of you shoot the breeze a while before he downs the last of his bourbon, grabs his keys, mumbling something about his baby girl. 

Not a minute later you feel someone looming just behind.  It’s Chris.  Freshly showered, in wet hair, grey shorts and t.  A cascade of butterflies ripple through your stomach.  You’ve hardly spoken to before now, but being focus of that gaze—wow.  It’s even better than the hype.       

He leans on the polished wooden top, eyes worried and intent.  “Hey Y/N,”

“Hey.”

“How’s the hand?”  He reaches out and punctuates the question with a caress on your elbow. It gentle, easy, part of the casual way he touches everyone, and no big deal.  Chris Evans, real life Captain America, does this with everyone. Is handsy. Hugs as easily as breathing. 

 _Shut up stupid butterflies_.    “Just stings,” you shrug. expecting him to make few minutes chat but somehow you both wind up deep in conversation.  The state of the union and all things Trump are covered, work travel and mindfulness.   He’s thoughtful.  And articulate.  Down to earth and inhumanly attractive.  There’s something a little wicked behind the almost-bashful smile. 

Your internal warning klaxons silently begin to blare.

 _He’s not for you._    Chris is just known to be the world’s nicest guy.  Golden-hearted (as Jenny famously announced) and worried about everything and everyone.  

“It’s fine.  Really,” you insist when he offers to walk you to your car, fretting that you haven’t planned for the next day off.  It _is_ fine. You will take it a little easier.  Show up at 7, instead of 4:45. but nothing puts him off.  

Underneath a flickering streetlight, Chris opens your car door, sets a hand on your lower back to say goodnight and a warmth that has nothing to do with Atlanta’s humid swamp begins to pool low in your belly.  

 _Oh oh._    

Of course in the weeks to come Chris’s golden retriever level of enthusiasm wears you down.    

First it’s “do you play charades?”;  then it’s  “we’re having a cast/crew baseball game…”   All correctly platonic and entirely above board.  No pressure.  First a Condessa latte shows up on your desk, then lunches with Mackie and Joe morph into casual dinner dates with just him.  Standing plans to watch MLB at Dene’s pop up because, if anything, you are more obsessed than he with Boston’s fabled Sox.  He’s a perfect gentlemen when he escorts you to a Pats game in the Falcon’s Nest. 

His fanboying over Brady makes you grin from ear to ear.

As you get to know each other better so many things get shared.  You open up about your crazy gypsy life as an air force brat, how hard it was to be constantly on the move; how you love spontaneity because your dad ran your home like a fighter wing.   He talks about the pressure of being in the public eye; how hard it is to meet someone who understands that life but how much he craves some stability.       

The first hint it could be something different dawns when you find two ALDS passes and tickets for Logan airport clipped onto your white board.   

Anthony raises an eyebrow and just grins as you stand in shock.

_Oh._

_My._

_God._  

(Boston is having an okay pennant run even with David Price on the DL list.)

You bolt from the set and arrive just in time to take your seat in the private box, smiling up at Chris as he hands you an icy Sleeper Street IPA.  

The bottle is covered in condensation.   It makes your fingers slide a little bit.   

“Watch that beer,” he grins, ocean eyes twinkling as he leans over to cover your hand with his.  He whispers  “If you spill on me again this time I might have to take off my shirt.” 

_Oh Lord.  He’s isn’t.  He’s not…_

The idea he’s flirting flits across your brain but you dismiss it.  Not possible.  Chris Evans flirts with everyone.  Constantly.  You know this—it’s part of his innate charm.  He’s single, playing the field, rumoured to be with everyone from Scarlet to a newly-available Ana Paris.  And what would _he_ , a star, want with _you_ , second assistant producer and chief-fixer of whatever Anthony and Joe need done?   _No way._    You’re just one of his many buds.  Filling the gap during the long months away. 

Chris Sale, Boston's Cy Young contender, is not at his best but you don’t care.  The food and drinks don’t stop.  You have the best view of a game you’ve ever had and you laugh, and laugh; the two of you teasing each other from the 1st inning to the 9th.

On the red eye flight back that night you fall asleep with your head upon his shoulder.     

The fall winds quickly on.  Filming goes on hiatus, you both head west to home, say keep in touch but of course he’s just being nice.  Somehow _(Anthony?!)_   Chris gets your private _private_ number.  Friendly texts once a week give way to trash chats almost every day during L.A.’s World Series run.  Boston’s out but that does not mean you will stoop so low as to root for the National League contender.  He invites you over with fifty of his closest friends to watch the seventh game.  It’s loud and raucous, and of course in the sea of people you hardly get a chance to talk.  

You’re on your fourth whiskey sour, a little woozy and light-headed, stomach tied in knots because the Astros are down a run, when you feel the couch dip down.  

It’s Chris.  Big and warm, and little flushed, taking a ribbing from his pals.  The two of you are quite possibly the only Houston fans in a sea of Dodger blue but neither of you care.  

Josh Reddick is at the plate.  3-2, bottom of the ninth.  Clayton Kershaw winding up.   

You lean forward, eyes on the screen when he grips your hand for reassurance.   Your heart is fluttering.   It’s the thrill the game, nothing more-- he feels it too, because beside you his leg is vibrating at hundred miles an hour—like a greyhound in the gates.   

(Afterward, you convince yourself his slightly fuzzy kiss is only because Reddick hits a walk-off home run.)

In the weeks to come you find yourself simply checking in; texting to ask how his family are; how Dodger’s coping with his schedule.  It’s nice.  Easy.  No biggie because you’re just good friends. 

Your schedules stay stubbornly mixed up—you’re in L.A., tied to the editing booth and he’s in Dubai, Milan, or Boston every chance he gets.   Like the entire world you’re glued to his twitter feed: laughing at another video of ridiculously drunken enthusiasm when the Pats win _again_ ; fangirling every time another picture of Dodger shows up.

You both manage dinner once or twice but there’s no time to seriously hang.  You miss it.  Intensely.  Somehow you’d become used to having him always _there_ but there is nothing you can do. 

 _Ridiculous, Y/N._   You’re simply friends.  You’ll catch up when there’s time.

The holiday season rolls around and it’s time for the annual Getaway crew party.  You splurge on a kickass dress (red because it brings out the highlights in your hair) and Manolo Blahniks that make your legs go on forever, get your hair and makeup done just for  no reason _(honestly)_.  After a quick hi to Anthony and Joe, you collect a flute of champagne and drift through the crowd, winding up after many hugs on the deck beside the pool. 

The lights twinkling in the blooming fuschias cast a hazy blush in the air.  It’s gorgeous and the perfect place to hide when you are trying to not too obviously peruse the crowd.     

You hear Chris before you see him.  His booming laugh echoes up from the lower terrace.  He’s there-- tanned; neatly trimmed and striking in a silver shirt and dark black jeans--- with Pratt and Mackie.  They’re out on the grass underneath the stars, surrounded by the bevy of blonds from accounting, joking and pounding tumblers of Chivas back. 

He looks gorgeous.  More than half-cut.  And occupied.  

You take a gulp of the exquisitely dry Cava and will your pulse to settle down.  He hasn’t yet noticed that you’re there.  Of course not.  The daily texting dropped off weeks ago but your stubborn, stupid heart can’t help but wish that he’d come looking for you.  

Sweep you up in those huge strong arms and say he’d missed you too. 

Because that’s what good friends do.

_Yeah right._

You’re just telling yourself what an idiot you are when he throws back his head and laughs, wraps an arm around Jeanine (petite, perfect and probably enhanced) and your stomach _twists_. 

 _Oh god._   You hadn’t realized your ‘problem’ had got this bad.

“Go on, Y/N.  Go over.”   

The words are whispered near your ear and you whirl, just barely keep the bubbly in your glass. 

Jeremy Renner is smiling, mouth quirked to one side, kind eyes glinting in the glow of Christmas lights.  He’s not one of the cast you know that well so you stand, a little stunned while he waves his glass in the direction of the noise.  

“I mean it.  Go get him.  Chris is crazy about you.  I told the idiot he was wrong but he’s convinced that you aren’t interested.”  

 _Aren’t interested?_   But that means that he….

You slowly shake your head, nervously tucking a stray strand of hair back behind your ear.  Crazy about you?   Sure he’s flirted.  Kissed you once.  Kept in close touch but that had fizzled lately.  Jeremy can’t be right.  You know they’re close, but he has have misunderstood something that he said.  

What you and Chris have is not that kind of thing. 

The sound of laughter carries across the water.  You stare into your glass, hoping to find a little help but you know it won’t Your normally spontaneous and ebullient self has been body snatched by a timid mouse.  

“It’s not my place.  I’m _not.._ ”  you mumble when you finally get your tongue to work.   

The flush that stains your throat and neck tells otherwise.

“Really?” Jeremy chuckles.  “Then why have your eyes been glued on him non-stop?” 

Y/N, I’ve watched him dance around you now for months.  He’s trying to take things slow.  Not rush headlong for once into something new and keep it out of the press’s eye.   I told him he’s being too discreet; that he’s so careful you can’t tell what’s in his busy head but he won’t listen.”

Your mouth is flapping open like a fish.  Jeremy smiles wide and slow, nods when you can’t help yourself and look back down into the yard.  What if he’s wrong?  What if you make a fool of yourself?  What if he’s ready to move on? 

“I can’t…”  

“Sometimes you just have to take a leap.”

The waiter drifts past again.  Jeremy silently pulls your empty flute from your trembling fingers and hands back a fresh round of dutch courage.  You raise it to your lips, swig the bubbly like water.  The knot of people around Chris has changed again, condensed to the two Chrises, Anthony and Sheletta, his wife and childhood sweetheart.  You’ve met her on set.  She’s lovely.  Not too scary.

Jeannine is nowhere to be seen. .     

A piercing whistle makes you jump.  “Evans!” Jeremy calls and  oh fuck he’s done it—Jeremy has rolled the dice. 

Chris looks up, finds Renner wave and then his eyes go wide. His handsome face flushes and he bites his lip.  Shakes his head wonderingly and mouths ‘You look beautiful”. 

To you.  The girl he’s been crazy about all these months. 

Oh god.  OK.  That’s it. 

 You walk down the terrace steps and into a new life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris and reader navigate some unexpected twists. Fluff and some angst, a teensy bit of social anxiety and a little making out.

Two weeks after puppy comes home Chris goes back to work.  

 There’s a whirlwind of press to do for Red Sea Diving and Avengers 3, and with the rave reviews for both (and his Broadway debut) your giant, bouncing labrador of a boyfriend is on a high.  

This night his assignment is Jimmy Kimmel Live.  

The Town car pulls up in front of the old masonic lodge that hosts Kimmel’s studio and  you’re thinking ‘Wow”.   Already the crush of tourists and fans outside the doors snakes past El Capitan’s classic art deco theatre to Ghirardelli’s chocolate shop.  They're held back by a line of security and police.  The walk of fame out front with its stars and waiting papparazzi has a red carpet laid on top.  The facade looks elegant; all stone columns and ionic capitals, banners and bright lights.  You're thrilled.  You've seen a taping but it was nothing like being there with Chris.   Flashbulbs are already popping through the tinted windows before he finishes his call with Susan, his long time publicist.  

 “Fine. Yeah.  I know. I know. I’m good. Breathe. Yup, I’m breathing.  See you at 10 for dinner.”  

He swipes his phone shut and smiles weakly across at you, leg going a million miles an hour.  The nerves never get any easier. They do this before almost every show.  Susan, the pro, can usually talk him down, get the noisy brain in gear, but this time with the Avengers hype off the dial, they decide it might help if you came along.  

Officially you are representing Getaway and reporting back on audience response.  Unofficially you are there to stand in the wings and wish calming vibes his way.  

 The evening mercifully starts out light and easy.  

 Jimmy loves Chris as an interview: they always have fun and joke around, but he knows his subject well enough to go a little slow while his guest gets in the groove.

“What is new with you?” he asks, smiling broadly, clapping Chris on the shoulder as the big guy sits on the soft grey wool of the couch,  bobbing his head at the wild applause and nervously smoothing his tie in place.  

“Not much.  Filming. Hanging out.” Chris huffs a breath and smiles, trying to act nonchalant, adjusting his cuffs and surreptitiously wiping his sweaty palms on his dark suit pants.   “A ten city press tour.”

Jimmy’s eyebrows head for the ceiling and he chuckles wryly.  “Oh yeah, that's not too much.  Press for the biggest opening of the year.  Being everywhere on screen.  Nearly breaking the internet tweeting about your dog.”

Chris laughs and Jimmy explains whole missing Dodger thing to the audience.   “For the few folks who spent this year underneath a rock—this is Dodger.  And this is where we all thought he  _died_!”  

Pictures of Dodger show up on the big screen backdrop; the pining tweets that were misinterpreted; the amazing video shot by Carly of their reunion.  The audience is oohing and awwing and clapping loudly.

Chris shrugs, embarrassed and pleased at once.  ““I know, I know. What can I say?  Dodger’s a pure soul. It was hard.  It was hard on both of us.  I was in South Africa for _months,_  but I wasn’t gonna put him in quarantine.”  

Jimmy smiles fondly.  “Man. I get it.  It’s rough. But next time, just warn us ok?”  He turns to the camera, all mock serious.   “And Twitter? Jack you listening?  Give this guy 280 characters right now—cuz jeez I don’t think our hearts can handle too short Evans tweets.”  

Chris throws back his head and laughs, grabs his pec for a sec, shaking his head, full on going for it as the whole studio cracks up.  “Suuure that’ll work.  I get to word vomit more.”  He mimes grabbing for a barf bag and waves the idea away.  You’re smiling, watching him relax.  Thank heaven.  So far the interview's going great.   

“No Twitter.. please.  Do not.” Chris shakes his head and settles back into his seat, beaming a sunshine smile.  “But seriously—it’s all good. When I have to be away, we’ve got a solution for it now.”

Kimmel raises an eyebrow.  “Oh yeah?”

“We adopted a puppy.”

The whole audience in unison goes  **‘** Awww”  and suddenly Chris is pulling out his phone, flipping through his pictures to show Jimmy one of the two amigos on the lawn,   Dodger sitting tall and puppy flopped at his feet.  

He holds the screen facing out toward the seats.  The camera zooms in and out, trying to focus until Jimmy turns to ask the stage manager:  “Can we get that up?"   

Magically, the picture is caught and appears on the backdrop:  puppy and Dodger beyond life size and so adorable the audience is cooing.  Jimmy nods at the screen.   "Oh my god that little fluffball is seriously too cute.  Could give someone a heart attack”  

Chris nods, smiling to beat the band like the world's proudest papa  but then suddenly,  laser like, Jimmy swivels back to Chris and picks up on what was said.

“ _We_?”  

Chris blushes bright red as a tomato.  Then just as quickly pales to an unhealthy shade of white.  

Standing in the wings, you think “ _oh shit.”_    and your heart falls into your shoes.  This is exactly the type of nightmare scenario guaranteed to bring out his anxiety.  He’s probably in panic mode; brain berating him for slipping up, worrying all at once about what Susan’ll say, and how to talk his way out.   And if he’ll fuck up more.   You watch him awkwardly cross and recross his legs, stroking his tie down again and stalling for more time.  

 _“A friend”_   That’s all he has to say, he doesn’t  _need_  to give any more but for some reason he’s biting his lip, fingers tapping on his slacks, agonizing.   This is his least favourite part of the biz but surely Jimmy won’t give him too hard a time?    

The silence is getting a little long.   _Come on Chris.  You’re an actor._     _Just fudge an answer._   You’re pleading in your head, trying to will the words to reach him.

After a silence of a million years, he speaks.   And you almost drop your notes in shock.  

“My girlfriend and I.”  

_What????!!!_

An instant giant collective groan emanates from the audience.  Cieto, Jimmy’s band leader, right on cue leads the house band in a mournful dirge. You’re frozen, thanking every diety known to man that at least the public has no clue it’s _you_ , when your phone buzzes in your hand.  

It’s Susan.  Of course it is.  She watches all his events and you just know she’s madly texting “wtf???”   Gripping harder at your board, you ignore the public relations pile on and watch, faintly ill, as the accident continues to unfold. 

Over on the set Jimmy can barely speak for chuckling.  

“Folks.  Folks,” he pleads palms up, getting the hooting of the audience to calm down.  “Oh my god, you heard it here first.  The scoop of the year. Chris Evans is no longer single and the internet is about to break again.”

You’re dying.  Just dying, trying to keep your face straight, head whirling at the implications.   _Why??!!_ Fuck, Chris, why do this now?   How long before someone finds out it’s you?  Days, if you’re lucky and that thought makes your stomach knot.  What will Anthony and Joe say?  How will you handle all the crazies? You’re picturing shit-tons of hate mail, a posse of paparazzi at the gate when you get back to Laurel Canyon and you're wondering if you can scale the cliff at the bottom of the lawn to drop into Christina Applegate’s backyard next time you have to leave.  Maybe you should scoot right now?  Maybe you should get a taxi to your own, darkened, dust-filled, and much ignored of late apartment?  It might be better to not be seen going back to Laurel Canyon but then what would puppy and Dodger do?  

You’re just picturing never dining out again, never jogging on Mulholland, when you notice that Chris, the shit, is grinning like a loon.  

 _What?!_ He doesn't look freaked.  He looks happy.

The noise has finally subsided.  Jimmy is leaning over and asking: “How long has it been?”  

Chris takes a breath, licks his lips, and slouches a little lower,  weirdly almost looking relaxed.   Some colour has come back into his cheeks.   “Four months,” he answers.

“Four months?  So new!”

“Yeah.  Yeah.  New but feels so right.  It’s like she’s always been there, you know?”  

 _It is?_     _What did he just say?_  You’re melting; a little dizzy at the heartfelt words and you almost miss Jimmy nodding, saying something about that was how it was for him, as a shy smile creases Chris’s face.   

Your brain goes from panicked to short circuited: replaying that sentence over and over.  The phone’s still buzzing frantically.  You're still not processing  most of Jimmy’s bantering until he asks, curious as a cat.   “How did you keep this secret?”   

Chris grins.  “She’s Anthony Russo’s right hand man.  Goes almost everywhere that I do with the Avengers movies being made.”  

Ok that’s good.   _Good._   He’s brought it back to the reason that he’s there: press for Infinity War.  Gotta pay the studio.  Do the job and not ramble too far from the appointed task.   

You're confident that Jimmy will move on to the debut but then Chris does the unthinkable.

Perhaps he’s still a little flustered.   Or maybe his brain invaded for a moment by the God of Mischief but he waves his big strong hand toward the right stage wings. “She’s here.”  

A studio camera whips right ‘round but you’re in shock.   You can’t believe it.  Your carefully protected secret.  Held for  _months_.  Friends and family have sworn a pact.  Every little move has been carefully choreographed and this impetuous goofball has just outed you to the world!  

 _Oh my fucking god._   

There’s a producer in headset tapping you on the shoulder but you’re shaking your head; turning away and bending over.  Hiding your face in your hands and clutching your clipboard hard, thanking every god in the MCU that you’ve worn a business suit.

(Out of the corner of your eye you can see the feed.  Oh great.  Your ass is on national television.  Hastily you straighten up.)  

Over on set, Jimmy’s hand is waving lazily at you to come out. The audience is clapping, louder and louder, but still you mutely shake your head.   No.  Way.   You are not stepping into Chris’s limelight.  This is his thing. Marvel’s thing.  Fuck, Kevin Feige is gonna have an aneurysm.

Jimmy, the smiling bastard, is still laughing and the camera is still on your back.  “She’s kinda shy. 

“Not really…but,” Chris stammers.  He’s wide-eyed and worrying. Trying to apologize.  Suddenly aware that he's shocked you to your core.   “I’m sorry. Sorry.  I didn’t mean…”    

He didn’t mean to what?  Implode your world?  Live?  The buzzing in your pocket has gone nuclear.  Your hear Anthony’s dedicated tone and Joe’s.  A few others with no alert and you wonder if it’s his agent Josh and manager Brad, on top of Susan.   Oh god. You’re almost hyperventilating. Will you get fired?  Will you still have a job on Monday morning?  Will your friend Lena whom you haven’t even told ever speak to you again??

Jimmy looks from Chris's increasingly strained expression over to you, and bless his sensitive soul, gets that this might be a little much.  They cut the feed away and like a pro, he starts to dial it back 

“Ok… What’s her name?”

“Y/N.”  

“And where did you meet?”

“On the set of Avengers 4.”   Suddenly you’re thinking of Frank Grillo.  Another excitable Marvel guy with Italian parents who talks with his hands as if he’s conducting an orchestra, but that moment he has got nothing on Chris.  The hands you love are almost dancing as he relays Bautista’s accident; excitedly outlines your mutual love of baseball and talks about the joys of puppy parenting.

 It’s adorable and overwhelming.   But still not what Chris is being paid to do.    

You think you are about to be in the clear when Jimmy launches his next question.  

“And what’s the puppy’s name?”

Chris chuckles and shakes his head.   “About that….”

* * *

 

Two events happen in the immediate aftermath.  

Puppy’s nameless state becomes a  _thing_. And your previously 250 follower-Twitter feed  _explodes_.

By the time you make it back into his dressing room your name is trending.  Chris holds you anxiously in his arms, apologizing over and over until you have to put your hands across his mouth.  

“It’s ok. I'm not mad.  Well, not anymore. It's just that it was so unexpected.” 

You search his face, hoping that he understands.  He does.  But he also wants to share the why.   “It’s not.  I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.  I don’t.”    He frowns and shakes his head, runs his hands up and down your arms.  He smells of aftershave and the heavy sweet lilies stuffed into a giant crystal vase.  You normally hate their smell but weirdly not in that moment.   "“Well, shit.. I do.  That's a lie.  Y/N, I love you.  I just couldn’t hold it in.  I don't want to hide how much I love you from the world anymore.”

A giant bloom of hope and happiness races through your chest. You’re crying and laughing all at once, certain you know that feeling too.   “And I love you.  Chris Evans, you are such a fucking meatball.  

“Yeah. Well I’m  _your_  meatball.”

The searing kiss lasts until a panicked Susan, come down in person, knocks upon the door.  

 

* * *

 

Turns out Chris Evans trending for any reason short of murder is good for Marvel too.  

The next day you a get bazillion texts from friends, get grilled by Susan and Chris’s agent Josh about your past until Chris is forced to growl, and learn all about block chains out of necessity.  While you and Chris were lying in that morning  (naked, oblivious and very occupied), some enterprising hack went to work with Getaway’s employee list and guessed your twitter handle.  

Shit.  Lesson learned.  

The afternoon is spent fielding calls and messages.  The most precious text you get is from Tara, Chris’s best  _best_  friend.  You’ve only met her once, half drunk and overwhelmed at the giant Evans-Capuano New Years party where you first met his family.  

She was lovely but you haven’t really talked.  

_< Welcome to the crazy whirl—we’ve got your back.>  _

Wow.   Deep breath.  Guess this means it’s real.  

And kind of overwhelming.  Chris is off again in days for the long-planned European opening of Infinity War and you’re at home, doing your job (the long lead in for Avengers 4 post production) and holding down the fort.  This includes taking Dodger and puppy out, and at first you’re nervous, knowing you will be followed.  Josh arranges for guards to enforce a breathable perimeter away from the vile, scum-sucking paps.  It works.  Folks get the hint mostly and eventually leave off.  You're not the famous one.  You're just walking the famous one's even more famous dogs. 

It gets easier after several weeks but the one that does not ease:  the fuss over puppy’s nameless state.   That keeps on going….  

Chris tweets about the new member family: a hundred thousand responses in the first two minutes. He mentions that puppy has learned to sit and stay and it goes viral.  Your twitter and his are literally inundated with puppy names—yours from friends and his from fans.  Even random peeps on the street get in on the act.  

Instead of Miles’ ‘I don’t wike it” being shouted out to him on the street, people now give puppy names.  It's hilarious.  And illuminating. 

 _Natasha?_    Seriously?   Puppy may be mostly black but you had said that he was a _guy._

Chris just laughs, and like Steve Rogers pulls out a small notebook and writes them down.

* * *

 

This state of ridiculousness lasts for the whole time that he is gone.  

Thank heaven you can telework.  The third bedroom that serves as Chris’s normally immaculate office is a riot of your stuff but it sure helps avoid the fuss.  You can focus on your job and the two dudes underfoot.  Puppy is, well, a puppy:  growing so fast into everything.  He needs constant supervision.  First he jumps up and gets the car keys off the kitchen island; chews them until the car alarm goes off.  Then he slides across the kitchen floor and accidentally knocks the cupboard kick plate out.  A priceless Himalayan poppy is shredded into tiny, forlorn blue bits.  A rather more mundane knitted sock winds up, unraveled, strung between the lounging chairs.  

You amuse Chris by texting pictures of the contraband.

Puppy’s personality grows just like his paws.  He’s smart and biddable, if anything almost more of a sap than Dodger.  You work on leash training, and sit and stay, endure the inevitable hilarious tabloid pictures of puppy looking confused at the walking park.  He loves to snuggle at your feet but also is more skittish, less confident than Dodger– easily spooked– and you suppose this is because the wide world is so big and new. Dodger was a rescue but grew up in a home.  Puppy has spent all his days inside a cage.  

This comes out, sometimes, in hilarious and unexpected ways.

One day he shies away from, but then furiously demolishes, an enemy ‘indestructable’ Ovis frisbee.   Another dinnertime, when your best friend has come over bringing ribs and cabernet,  he barks manically at barbeque sauce.  Once, he cowers at the sight of just one trash can. (What is up with that?  The other is ok _??_ )  His inner escape artist comes out  one morning when he bolts through the closing electric gate.   A startled photog thinks quickly and snags him by the collar before he can bolt out into the street.  ( _That is a puppy?_ _What is he?  Cerebus?)_   

All this fills your time but still you miss Chris something fierce.  He’s in Rome and Bucharest and Berlin.  Running from event to event. Tired, stressed, and you wish you could be there.  

All throughout the puppy name ideas keep coming in.  After Renner instagrams  ”Evans can’t name a dog”  the suggestions come flying thick and fast.  _Blackie._   _Bandit.  Ollie._    None of them really suit but  then Jeremy, the sneaky snarky shit,  goes to town— puts it in a poll on his private app; the custom one he has for fans to interact.  Oh lord.   Of course you need to follow just to see what’s trending, to tease Chris with the top rated latest idea, and that is how you wind up in your pj’s, enveloped by twenty pounds of puppy and  more of Dodger, in the middle of the day when IW has its London premiere.

Chris, below all the flashing lights,  looks amazing in a silvered, deep indigo and mauve silk suit by Ferragamo.  It’s edgy and fun—Mackie’s teases him about it but clotheshorse Sebastian approves.  

After the red carpet and introductions to the Prince and Princess (only you know how many times he’d practiced that perfect bow) the cast take their seats and you shoot him a text with the latest names.  

_< How about Cerebus?>_

_< Thumbs down>_

_“Bruno? >_

_< Blah>_

_< Beethoven>     _

_< He’s not a St Bernard>_

There’s a pause.  You wait patiently until the little dots start up again.

_< Sry. Chris put popcorn down my shirt>_

They are such kids.  Pratt or Hemsworth.  Either could be the culprit.  <Sorry I'm not there to help>

<Me, too!> Another pause.  

 _< Those Renner’s top rated stars? Gonna raz him hard>_   This is followed by a barfing face.

You laugh.   _< Least it’s not doggymcdogface>_

_< Shut up>_

_< Make me>_

You’re pretty sure his answer counts as sexting.  

 

* * *

 

Once Chris gets back stateside he and Susan hatch what they think is a brilliant plan for your proper coming out.  

You hate it.

You are terrified.

Ten of days of complicated, exhausting back and forth between the CGI guys and studio pass in an eyeblink and before you know it the day arrives.  May 3rd.

Infinity War’s New York Premiere.  

You both fly out. Leave Scott to dog sit at the house and start down the incredible set that lines the huge red carpet.  Photographers, literally a hundred of them, have come from all over the world for this night. You are shaking like a leaf, beyond nervous as you’ve never been on this side of the camera before.  Chris’s stylist has picked out a gorgeous gown; ruched and slim, ice lavender: it’s right on with the latest trend and shows off your height.  And your new, wholly unexpected piece of bling-a tastefully funky diamond and fluorite necklet that Chris, excited as a kid, couldn't wait to place about your throat.  (He blushes and admits it is worth way more than your monthly salary, but he doesn't care.  He wants to show you off.)    

“You look beautiful.”  Chris whispers in your ear.  Surreptitiously, he brushes his fingers across your ass as he nonchalantly smiles and waves, teases both cheeks through the heated silk.  The touch makes your skin flush and your heartbeat pound.

 "Exhibitionist," you whisper. 

"Oh that comes later.."  he purrs and now your face is flaming,   right as you both walk slowly  past the deepest part of the waiting phalanx.  

“Chris! Y/N!  Here. Look here.”

“Chris!  Chris!  Here!”

“How’s puppy?” someone shouts and he answers right away.

“Great! He’s with my little brother.”

“Got a name yet?”

“Nope.”  

There’s a ripple of laughter at that.  You stand a little dazed.  Chris holds your hand and  strokes a warm palm across your lower-back and you aren’t sure which of you it calms the most.  You keep expecting Susan’s assistant Joan to touch your elbow, the pre-approved signal to break away, but Chris keeps you there, shakes his head at her and holds you hard.  He's not letting go, enjoying your time in the spotlight until Elizabeth and Scarlet sweep up and join him.   You step quickly back; let them flirt and laugh and answer questions; have a great time joking about how weird it was to work with bearded Cap.  They seem lovely; you know them just a little from the set but you don’t ‘know them’ know them.  Maybe at the after party you’ll get that chance.  

Just when you are beginning to bite your lip and wonder if it’s weird you’re just standing there, a hand pulls at your elbow, drags you back to the centre of the throng.  

It’s Robert.  Beaming as he wraps you in a hug and plants the biggest kiss on your cheek.  He tucks you at his side while you blush furiously. You know him a little more because you’d worked the Siberia unit set.  

“Hey,” he smiles but looks askance.  “You good?”

“Trying,” you admit and he hugs you hard.  It is an reassurance that means so much.  You  stand and wave, listen to him expertly work the crowd before  an overly made-up woman in thigh-high slit gown and sky high heels stalks forward. 

She abruptly sticks a microphone in his face.   “Robert!  Robert Downey Junior!  Brooke from E! here.  What do you think about the rave reviews Infinity War is getting?”

He smiles a little wanly, waits for her to acknowledge you and when she doesn’t,  ignores her question blithely. “Brooke, great to see you.   Have you met Y/N?  One of the best damn producers in the biz.  She’s one of the reasons for those reviews.”  

Oh lord, but RDj is like this. Positive, Lovely. And occasionally full of shit.  

You are not a  _produce_ r, you are a second assistant producer. You want to die but settle for digging an elbow in his ribs   He giggles, but of course Robert has the chutzpah to pull it off.

Miss-self-centred-celebrity-interviewer frowns, plucked brows furrowed into a fairly accurate image of permanent confused surprise.  “Great,” she bullshits and gamely ploughs right on.  “Robert any predictions you want to make?”   

She means about fan response.  Folks expect the movie has been hyped but you know,  frame by frame, how great it is.  

You smile a little proudly, and glance up at Robert, wondering what he’ll say.  His eyes are hidden by the trademark coloured glasses but something about the stiff set of his jaw says he’s pissed by how rude she is.   

Hoo boy. 

You know he winding up to _bite_ but his answer makes even your jaw hit the floor.

“Predictions?  Sure.” He smiles fondly down at you and then over to the big muscled guy to his right.  “Y/N here will be the best damn thing that ever happened to Chris Evans.”

 _Wha..?_ …?”    

Before you can even frame a coherent thought Robert quips “See, look at this. He can’t be away from her for more than a heartbeat.”  

It’s true.  Chris has hoped back to grab your hand again and now you are sandwiched between your gorgeous boyfriend and one of Hollywood’s true legendary stars.  You sneak a peek at them both.  They’re happy and grinning and bantering back and forth.  

The part of you that isn’t terrified wants to pinch yourself at where you are.

Later, in the theatre’s dark with an epic battle raging overhead, you reflect on how freaky your life has become.  Before it was secrecy and haphazard dates; knees touching under table cloths and walking late in the evening with no one about.  Now it’s sitting next to this amazing man, in public in the middle of the afternoon,  while he squeezes your knee and kisses your palm every chance he gets.   Like a pair of giddy teenagers you whisper to each other, touch and flirt, get shushed by a grinning Scarlet.  

It’s amazing and crazy and just like a dream but it gets even crazier the next day when E! magazine runs the  byline “Is this the one?”.  Next to a picture of you, one hand on Chris’s chest, looking up adoringly into his eyes.  He has the softest smile and looks so happy he could burst.

Tara texts  < _I sure hope so_ >

All you can think is when did they take  _that_?

* * *

 

You fly back to Los Angeles and Chris does Chicago and D.C. but finally, mid-May he is back home.  Dodger and puppy are overjoyed.  You settle into something of a routine.  Work, workouts, hanging with friends, keeping up on puppy training.  Walking puppy three times a day to keep him happy and just a little less rambunctious.  The world has got used to the idea that you’re a thing so a few less paps haunt the gate.

Puppy by default gets called puppy all the time.  

One Saturday morning you are both huddled on the couch indulging a second cappuccino when Chris’s phone rings.  It’s Susan’s tone.  Reluctantly he puts it on speaker phone so he doesn’t have to hold it to his ear.

His lips are kinda occupied, lazily buzzing along your collarbone.

“Hmmm, Suz?  What’s up?”

“A new invitation came in for an event I think that you both should do.”

Chris frowns, wondering why this has to be handled now.  Sure New York was a smash success: as a couple you are good for Marvel's image, but a bit of break might be nice.  “When?” he asks cautiously.

“End of June.”    

He frowns. “Kinda busy with Red Sea opening near then.”  

“I know.  But I think you’ll really want to see this one.”  Susan sounds like she is smiling.  Intriguing.  Normally she’s so straight-faced she looks like a B list poker player with a shitty hand.  

“Uh, ok.”  Chris shrugs as you hastily pantomime a question. "When's it coming?" 

“I’ll send the car right over with the invite.”

 _Now?_  Wow. It obviously is a major deal.  

Thirty minutes later the doorbell rings, Dodger and puppy race for the door, stand there with tails wagging while Chris accepts the envelope from Susan’s driver.

He flops back beside you on the couch.  You scoop puppy up, give him a scratch behind both silky ears while Chris runs a fingernail under the flap.

“Holy shit!”

You lean over and peer across his muscled shoulder.  “What is it?”

“An invitation from the Bosox’s owner John Henry himself.”

“ To what?” you ask, thinking of his beer-drenched, football weekends with the guys.  This would be a perfect opportunity but you’re the Red Sox’s biggest fan.  Maybe Scott could sit again and you both have a weekend to yourselves?

“Their ‘dog day at Fenway’”

“What?!”  You squeal. “Yes!”  You shake puppy’s paw and his kiss his snout.  “Oh my god little guy you get to see the Green Monster for yourself.”

Chris laughs.  The Green Monster is Fenway Park’s fabled left field wall. The highest in the MLB.   “So long as he doesn’t piddle on it. We’re going to do it then?  Says here they need an answer by Monday.”

You shake your head incredulously at Chris.   “Are you kidding?  Our favourite team?  The most famous field in all of baseball!  Of course we’re doing it!  And besides, our first date was there.  It’s awesome.”  

It is.  Dodger, catching some of your excitement, gets all keyed up.  He jumps up and puts his paw on Chris’s knee.  His master gives it a grave shake, purses his lips thoughtfully.  “Hmmm. Maybe we can take a couple days off. Hang with mom and everyone.  Charter a jet to make it easy to fly both these dudes.”

You like that idea.  The only thing dampening your enthusiasm was the thought of putting puppy in an airplane hold.  Chris reaches down and gives Dodger’s head a pat before looking across at you, a slow smile spreading along his lips.  Your soulful boyfriend has saved the best bit for last.

“They want me to throw out the first pitch.  With Dodger and puppy there.”

“Woohoo!!”   That’s it. Pandemonium breaks out.   You’re up and dancing with an excited, yipping ball of fluff in your arms, while Chris grabs Dodger and gets his face washed excitedly.  

“We need red ribbons for their collars,” you exclaim, “and to get them groomed and…”

“Whoa.  First things first.   I need to work on my pitch.”  

“Oh I can help with that.  I’ve got good hands.”  

With a glove you mean, but Chris chuckles mischievously and leans in to catch your lips in his.  “I know. Maybe we should go work on ‘signs’.”

Oh god.  You laugh through the feather softness of his kiss along your jaw, shiver as it presses harder and finds the hollow of your throat.  So good.  Your eyes are starting to glaze over while a perfect liquid heat pools low in your core. Several blissful moments are then lost to making out before the ‘kids’ begin to wriggle.  

Puppy’s whining in that way that says he needs to pull up a tree 

Reluctantly you break apart and make a face. “Parent time.” Chris sets Dodger down and goes over to the French doors, slides them open and lets both dogs out into the yard.  It’s warm and a little hazy.  You grab your half empty mug and the invitation, sit at the outdoor dining table to read it through. 

God this is incredible.  They want Chris to throw out the first pitch and join Mr. Henry in his suite.  Lead the seventh inning stretch and bring you too. You’re named.  Wow.  It’s unbelievable.  You look up at Chris and smile, shielding your eyes from the climbing sun.  

He’s stretching out his shoulders, flexing to get out the kinks.   It makes you want to run your hands up underneath his shirt.  

_Focus Y/N, focus._

You tap your fingernails thoughtfully on the mug.  ‘Fenway.  I still can’t believe it.  Puppy and Dodger going to Fenw…  Wait.  That’s it!”  You sit straight up.  It’s perfect.  How had you never thought of it before?

“What?”   Chris swipes your mug to take a swig, cocks one eyebrow, keeping half an eye on the dogs as they go about their routine.  

“Puppy needs a name.  Before we get to the park. Look.”  You shake the heavy vellum under Chris’s nose.  The Red Sox’s address is in big green lettering at the top.

“Fenway.  It’s the perfect name.”

Chris looks over at the little guy chasing after Dodger with his tongue lolling out and ears flapping in the wind.  It’s been two whole months since you brought him home. Two months that feel more like two days and have been an amazing ride. 

“Fenway.  Dodger and Fenway.  I love it. It so works.”  

* * *

 

_Six weeks later..._

From Boston’s NESN-TV feed.   June 27, 2018.  Jerry Remy and Steve Lyons announcing.

“Well folks look at that.  It’s a high looping curve ball, right over the plate and Vasquez nabs it easily. He jogs out to the mound.  Hands it straight to tonight’s special first pitch guest: Chris Evans.  That's right,  Captain America himself has just thrown out the ball on tonight’s Sox-Tribe game.  A long anticipated match-up that is sure to be a slug fest.”  

“You’re right about that Jerry.  The fans, and their pooches, are keyed up for this game on ‘dog day at Fenway’, brought to you by Nutrisource and the Sox’s great management.  37,000 here tonight.  Almost capacity.”

“How many dogs?”

“No official stat on that…but the two cutest gotta be  on the infield right now.  Dodger and Fenway.  Chris Evans’ and his girlfriend Y/N’s pups.”

“No doubt about it Steve.  They’re both being very good dogs out there, standing patiently with Miss Y/N.  Now Mr. Henry and tonight’s managers, Alex Cora and Tito Francona, and the home plate umpire  Sal Longoria, have come forward to shake Mr Evans’ and Miss Y/N’s hands.  Starting pitcher Drew Pomeranz tips his cap.  We’re just waiting for Mr. Henry to take the microphone and say a few words.”  

“Hmm.  There seems to be a bit of a delay.  Can you tell what’s going on?”

“Not sure, exactly. The big wigs have all stepped back.   Wait. Oh lordy.  Mr. Evans has gone down on one knee.”

“Yup.  No doubt about it.  Folks we are witnessing history here.  Mr. Evans is holding Miss Y/N’s hand and pulling something out of his pocket.  It’s looks sparkly and suspiciously like a ring. Miss Y/N is nodding her head and those are definitely tears upon her face.”

“What an amazing moment.  The crowd is on its feet.  The whole stadium is pounding from the cheering.  Mr. Evans is now standing up and wow that kiss might just bust our rating.”

“Dang it, Jer, there’s something in my eye.”

“Mine too.  And Tito's from the look of it.  What a phenomenal way to start this series. The organist has struck up ‘It’s a Wonderful World’ and there’s one heck of powerful hug going on down there.”

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy." 

“And gal.”  

“Absolutely.  Now, they’re slowly starting to walk off, hand in hand, waving to the crowd and the dogs are trotting along.  A storybook start to a new life.  We wish them every happiness.”    

“We sure do.  Look at that. Both dugouts have emptied to salute them.  Nice touch.  Class acts both teams.”

“For sure.  And while the happy couple take a few last waves the infield has filed back to their spots. Pomeranz is scuffing his cleats on the spike cleaner, getting ready for his set up.”    

“It’s a beautiful and memorable night Boston.  Let’s play ball.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday @theycallmebecca!! We’re finally at the end! Thanks so much to @arizonapoppy for her awesome and timely help. Oenethera5 is the one who came up with the winning name. Hope you all like it. Because I rushed to get this up for Becca’s big day it is not beta’d. If y’all spot anything too heinous let me know :)
> 
> Come visit me at tumblr: sian22redux.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to @mypatronusismrpricklepants and @arizonapoppy for their awesome beta work. And thanks to all those who got in on the contest to select Puppy's name. @oenothera5 suggested the winning name :)
> 
> For the record, David Price is hot even if he is a Bosox and "Dog Day at Fenway" is a real thing :)
> 
> Please note that this is fiction and of course puppy parenting shown here is not meant to represent best practices :)
> 
> Come say hello on tumblr where I'm sian22redux


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